


DC17: Too Quiet

by WichitaRed



Category: Alias Smith and Jones
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 18:38:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13059816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WichitaRed/pseuds/WichitaRed
Summary: Too Quiet: the quiet is enough to unnerve both Kid and Kyle... but maybe that is because one of their own is missing.Destiny’s Cycle (DC) follows the Outlaw days.. what does Destiny have in store. Each month, I get a challenge, (this month is a bonus, pulled an old challenge and filled my need to write) and then the cycle continues. You can follow KC, HH, & the gang through their adventures. DC does link together, but some tales stand on their own. Yet, its building its own world history, inside jokes, characters, places, etc. I hope you enjoy DC. Feedback WELCOMED!





	DC17: Too Quiet

 

 

Too Quiet

 

 

 

 

Scootching deeper into the chair, the sheepskin coat bunched up about his face and before him, the deep darkness of a moonless night stretched out, blanketing all in its thick quiet.

Tucking his gloved hands beneath his arms, Curry considered retiring. But, he did not move. It was even quieter inside and as much as he teased his cousin, about, perhaps, giving him some peace and quiet. He found he did not like the reticent seclusion of the empty cabin. ‘I should have gone with him,’ he thought, for at least the fiftieth time, since the sun had sunk from the sky. ‘Said he’d be back before dark.’ He exhaled, heavily, his warm breath hanging, twisting about him like a trapped fog bank. ‘What if he’s laying out there?’

Pulling his feet off the railing, he leaned forward, his elbows digging into his thighs. The abrupt move shifted his lungs and a burbling cough erupted. That one cough became a series. They  rolled from him disturbing the Devil’s Hole’s quietude, even more than the hoot owls, who had spent a good thirty minutes, garbling at each other in the purple dusk; but that had been hours ago.

Spitting a slimy glob on the hard earth before the porch, he heaved a sigh, dropping his head into his hands, “Heyes where the hell are you?”

“No lights, thought you’d turned in.”

The chair skidded as he leapt to his feet, flipping the buttoned coat clear, his palm wrapping tight to the Colt’s polished, mahogany butt.

“Whoa! Whoa! Kid!!”

“About put a hole in you!”

Wheat Carlson stepped closer, “don’t need any extras, thanks.”

“What do you want?”

“Been waiting for Heyes to ride in.” He put a boot on the bottom step. “Didn’t realize you was still up, ‘till I heard that lunger’s hack you’ve acquired.”

Curry dropped into his chair, another cough taking over.

Wheat shook his head, stepping up onto the porch. “Go inside you’re goin’ to kill yourself out here; then what will all of us do with Heyes?”

“What??”

“You’re the only one who keeps a handle on ’em. Hellfire, he’d blow like a ruptured tank without you around.”

Tucking his hands back under his arms, Curry grunted, “I will be fine.”

Wheat shifted, hitching himself to perch on the porch rail. “You stay out here, you won’t.”

“Carlson, leave me be.”

Rubbing at the underside of his chin, Wheat studied the gasping man before him. “He don’t look like much more than his name… cold, sick, worried… he looks like an overgrown kid sitting out here.’ Standing, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his thick wool coat, “I’ll sit up and wait. You go to bed.”

Red-rimmed eyes shifted to Wheat, making him feel like he should skedaddle back to the bunkhouse, instead he only stood up. “It’s where you ought to be. It’s where Heyes would want you.”

Leaning back, Curry closed his fever brilliant eyes, “He went to town for me.”

“I know he did.”

“He isn’t back.”

“Know that, too.”

Curry rubbed at his face, the roughness of his glove making him wince. Dropping his hand, limply, to his lap, he asked, “why you waiting for him?”

Carlson grinned, ruefully, “Don’t you be tellin’ him. But, I like Heyes, he has grit. He is a fine one to ride the trail with.”

Curry considered asking, ‘then why are you always at him, until you have all his neck hairs on end?’ But, overall, felt too weary to breach the subject.

“Come on,” Wheat held out a hand. “I’ll stand guard inside, while you sleep.”

Curry stared at the hand and its owner a bit, before finally, accepting assistance.

On his feet, he choked and another round of coughing took over, going on and on, torturing him; until he caught his breath and again spit.

“In,” Wheat said, pointing at the cabin door.

Staggering in, he allowed his feet to drag him to his room and as he struggled out of his coat, holster and boots, he could hear the racket of Wheat stirring up the stove fire. “Coffee’s in the blue tin by the stove.” Unable to catch himself, he set to coughing. His performance went on for a good minute or two, until with a moaning croak, he had rung himself out.

“Damnation, Kid, lie down before you hack a chunk of lung on the floor.”

Worn down and sore, Curry still grinned, quite simply, because he did not feel too far from what Wheat described. Not bothering to remove his clothes, he tumbled into bed.

At some point, he rolled over and thought he smelled bacon. Swimming up to wakefulness, he forced his eyes open. The brilliant, late morning light, drenching his room startled him and he sat up like he had been jabbed with a hot poker. In the same instant, he set to coughing. Grasping  his ribs, he rolled from bed and lumbering to the piss bucket, hacked gobs of phlegm in it, before using it. Then flinging open his bedroom door, he lurched into the main room, “Heyes, you had me worried sick.”

“Not Heyes,” Preacher stated, looking back from where he stood at the cast iron stove. “You were already sick, so I suppose, you’ll still be worried.”

Curry’s eyes darted about the cabin and knowing the answer, still had to ask, “He’s not back?”

Preacher frowned, dolefully.

“Gotta go find him.”

The bacon hissed angrily as Preacher turned it with a fork, “no reason.”

Curry, hoarsely, answered, “no reason…” pointing to the front door, “he’s out there alone.”

“Wheat, Lobo, and Kyle left out while the sky wasn’t even pink yet. They said they’d bring him back and I’m positive they will. They also said, I was to keep you here.”

“Good luck doing that.” Curry muttered, stomping back to his room.

Covering one side of a plate with bacon, Preacher cracked four eggs in the skillet grease, grinning at the inventive and vibrant curses emanating from Curry’s room.

After drowning in another coughing fit, Kid Curry stormed to the table, red-faced, his eyes sparking with anger, to hiss, “Where the hell are my boots, holster, and coat?!”

Flipping grease over the eggs, Preacher said,  “sit down and eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“That is either a bold faced lie or I’ve been exchanging words with a haunt.”

Staring hard at the man, he normally felt friendly toward, Curry bit his lower lip.

Lifting the hot pot with a rag, Preacher filled the coffee cups sitting on the table and removing a flask from his pocket, dumped a good dose of rye in the black brew, cajoling, “Come on, Kid, coffee‘ll make your throat feel better.”

With a sigh, Curry sank into his chair, “But, I want to go find him.”

Preacher had already turned to pull the eggs and was glad he had, because, he could not resist smiling at Curry’s whining tone. Then, as Wheat had earlier, found himself pondering how very much the gunslinger sounded like his moniker. Which made him wonder, how all of them had decided to follow men so much younger than themselves. Big Jim had been one thing and back then, Heyes had been his pet; a kid himself. How was it, he and his partner had become their leaders? But, before he could souse deeper into his considerations, he was interrupted.

“You planning on giving me them eggs and bacon or just staring at them ‘till they're cold?”

“Thought you weren’t hungry.”

“Well, I am.”

Setting the plate before him, Preacher said, “I knew you were. Never been a time, I haven’t seen you pile into grub, like a pup too long off the teat.”

Curry looked up sharply, his mouth already too full to reply.

A scratchy laugh worked its way from Preacher as he liberally dosed, his own cup with whiskey, “Now, when your finished, head on back to bed.”

Swallowing, Curry gulped out, “Heyes--”

“Will be found.”

Forking up more eggs, Curry glanced toward Heyes’ closed bedroom door, a hint of a smile emerging.

“They aren’t in there. And, if you go looking, you’ll find your saddles not in the tack room and your horse has disappeared.”

Slamming his fork on the table, Curry took a breath to rip into Preacher and instead exploded into a cacophonous hacking fit.

“Eat and bed.”

Around the same time, lower on the mountain, three outlaws were trotting briskly into Tin. Shivvering like a dog shaking himself, Kyle called out,  “Sure is cold.”

 “I’m right here, no use telling me,” Wheat replied.

“Just glad we made it off that ridge leading down.” Lobo said, “were a bit there, I figured the wind was going to blow me clear of my saddle.”

Pulling up, they stood, three abreast on Tin’s Main Street, gawking at the closed up town.

Kyle looked left and right, his blue eyes seeming extra large, “It’s too quiet, I don’t like it.”

Loosening his stampede strings, Wheat asked, “What day is it?”

Before either of his companions could answer, a church bell’s sharp clanging ripped apart the winter morning, and they all nodded.

Standing in his stirrups, repositioning himself before dropping back in his seat, Lobo said, “that does explain the ghost town.”

“If’n it’s all closed up,” Kyle looked to Wheat, “where we gonna look for Heyes?”

Sucking on his lower lip, Wheat sat silent and then smiled, “Let’s check the Livery first.”

When Kyle and Lobo pulled the double barn doors open, the horses inside pushed their heads, over their stall gates, to see who had arrived.

Pacing down the row of stalls, Wheat came to a halt, “Here’s Clay.”

From where he was leaning against the door frame, Lobo said, “means Heyes is still here in town.”

“You think!”

“No reason to get proddy, Wheat. Fact is ya should be happy.” Kyle said, pulling off a glove and digging his block of chaw from his pocket. “I been worried we might ‘ev passed ‘em, somewhere on the way down, and not known it.”

Wheat nodded, “yeah, but now we gotta find him.”

The other two outlaws turned their eyes on Wheat, giving him their full attention.

He stared back, a frown becoming apparent.

“Well, what ya thinkin’ we should do?”

Clay pushed against his stall gate, whickering at his own companions standing outside the barn.

“Well…” Wheat said, swallowing, “Lobo, first, you saddle Clay and we’ll take him along.” Striding to the doors, he eyed the empty streets, ‘Where you at Heyes?’ After a long few minutes, he turned back, “Kid said he came down for him. Either of you hear why?”

Lobo grunted, “no,” tightening Clay’s cinch and the horse side-stepped into him. “Swear, this animal has never liked me much.”

Kyle laughed and spit on the soft dirt floor, “When he was leaving, Heyes told me--”

“You spoke with him?”

Kyle nodded, “Uh huh. I helped get Clay caught up and saddled.”

“Just now, you’re thinking of sharing what he said?”

Kyle looked down, his worn boot scuffing up some dirt, covering the wet stain he had made.

“Out with it, Kyle.”

“Ya sure are on the prod, Wheat.”

Wheat barked, “Kyle!?” Thinking, ‘I’m startin’ to get why Heyes is on the prod, so often.’

“Said he recalled when he was really sick once, his Ma had dosed ‘em with honey to stop his coughin’.  It worked, too. ‘Ceptin’ she gave ‘em so much, he still don’t care much for it. Which I told ‘em was hard to believe, ‘cause ain’t much better for pure good tastin’ than clover honey.”

Leading Clay out, Lobo handed him to Kyle asking, “So, he came down for honey?”

“Yup.” Kyle nodded, “we don’t keep none at The Hole.”

Reaching up under his coat, Wheat tucked in the loose tail of his shirt, “suppose we don’t, Hmmm.”

“He also said he wanted to speak with the Druggist. ‘Cause nothin’ he’d dosed Kid with was doin’ much good.”

Tugging his coat down, Wheat stated, “Let’s go talk to the Druggist.”

“Uhm, Wheat, it's Sunday.”

Wheat nodded, “Yeah, I suppose, he would be down there in the hot house with everyone else.”

Lobo asked, “should we wait?”

“Don’t feel like waiting.” Wheat headed for his own horse, “Where would a person get honey?”

Lobo replied, “Reckon the mercantile.”

“It’d be closed too.” Kyle put in.

Grabbing up his reins, Wheat grunted, “Well, damnation,” and swung onto his horse.

Looking up, Lobo squinted in the bright sunlight, “Maybe, he went to the cat house?”

“Nah, Heyes don’t like that place.” Wheat replied absently, studying at what he could see of Tin.

“You sure, ” Lobo went on, “he most definitely likes the action at the Chicken Ranch.”

“That’s Lotties. He don’t like this place, here in town. Says it’s the type of place a man goes if’n he wants to catch something.”

Kyle’s mouth dropped open, “that so?”

“Ain’t inspected it, Kyle, figured I’d just take’em at his word.”

By this time the three of them were mounted and staring at Tin.

“Druggist closed, so the mercs, cat house is a no…” Lobo mumbled, “think he got himself in an all night poker game?”

A smile appeared on Kyle’s face, “Yeah, maybe we oughts to check the saloons. We could even get one of them ‘bustle warmer’ drinks, ya had, Wheat.”

Wheat looked hard enough over at his pal, Kyle sunk into his shoulders, “but, ya said it were good.”

Closing his eyes, Wheat snorted, turning from Kyle, “Nope, he came down here in a hurry ‘for Kid. He wouldn’t play poker, nope, he’d want to hustle right back to The Hole.”

“Too bad ol’ Clay can’t tell us where he is.”

This time Wheat did not even bother to respond to his pal, but Lobo said, “Hell, he couldn’t if he could, he was way back in the barn, and the doors were closed.”

“I got it!” Wheat smiled, “only _one place_ that could keep him from returning.” Then the smile was gone.

Lobo’s brow furrowed and he scratched at the stubble along his jaw, asking, “how we gonna get him out of jail?”

Goosing his horse, Wheat drawled, “Suppose we best ascertain he is there first.”

 


End file.
